


As a Motion Dies

by deliciousshame



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:19:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousshame/pseuds/deliciousshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr glances at the space where the arm should be, and even though it's been months at this point, the sight still unnerves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As a Motion Dies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Enchanting_Codswallop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchanting_Codswallop/gifts).



> Long, long awaited gift fic. Was supposed to be about Altaïr and Malik after he lost his arm, which is technically correct, and, as we all know, that is the best type of correct. It's one of those stories where I lost all control over the narrative.

It took him more time than he would have liked to admit to himself that he felt guilty for what happened. It’s hard to accept that he was wrong, that he shouldn’t have acted like he did. It was much, much easier for him to act like the world was against him, that Malik was the architect of his own demise, Kadar, a victim of his own inaptitude, himself prey to circumstances and without blame. After all, he had worked to get where he was today. His abilities cannot be argued with. Surely those were all the proofs he needed.

And yet. It begins almost as soon as he wakes, when he dons the clothes he’s still allowed to wear, despite his fall from grace. He slips his arm into the white sleeve, like he’s done a thousand times before, and it hits him that such simple things are now forever forbidden to Malik. He’ll never clothe himself in Masyaf white again, now wraps himself in black as if he’d chosen to mourn his career, his arm, his late brother. 

It follows him through the day, each day, the ghost of his failures coming out of the shadows when he pulls a dagger, reaches for food, opens a door. He himself is left-handed, but Malik was not, though he has to be now. He has no doubt he’ll master his condition in time, will become as formidable as someone with only one hand can be, but it won’t be anytime soon, especially not hidden away in the Jerusalem bureau, trapped under maps, stuck with novices that aren’t half the assassin he used to be. Even as he finds Malik’s condescendence and anger an annoying burden to bear as he orders him around like he’s one of those novices, there is still a part of him that doesn’t completely disagree with his reaction.

He often falls dead to the world as soon as he settles for the night. His days are exhausting, especially now that he has to do all the groundwork by himself. Often, but not always. Sometimes, he can’t fall asleep, his thoughts wandering in every direction. He couldn’t say that Kadar’s face never haunts him then, in between other memories of his past that the night brings back to life. 

After all that, he has to acknowledge that he wouldn’t be this bothered by someone else’s fate if he didn’t feel at least somewhat responsible for it. Not to the point of the guilt following him all day long like this, every single thing that happens acting as a reminder of that disastrous night. 

Still, there is nothing to be done. Kadar is dead and Malik, forever diminished. If he cannot make this right, all he can hope for is forgiveness. 

________________________

To say the change of power was difficult would be an understatement. To be betrayed by one they had all trusted had cut deeply. Even he had put himself at Al Mualim’s mercy without fear more times than he could remember.

Despite the weight of all that history, everyone in Masyaf agrees that now is the time for major changes. Altaïr takes charge. Someone must. 

Malik is right there by his side, helping him ease the transition. He handles their men and resources better than he could. Altaïr always was more of a man of action. 

Well, Malik does better with those that accept him. For some, he bears the mark of his lack of skills. They would rather discard his role in the recent upheaval and judge him for what they perceive as his past weakness. Maybe it’s because they think he should have died while on duty instead of coming back wounded, leaving his dead brother behind. Maybe it’s irrational hatred of those they think of as weaker than them. Maybe they just can’t handle how well he dealt with the hurdle that was put on his path. Their reasons matter little. 

Malik would probably resent him if he tried to interfere on his behalf, but more than that, it’s that Malik does not need his help. He’s the one that said that his blade arm was still good. He’s the one that remade himself into the assassin he is today. He’s more than strong enough to take care of everything without outside help. 

He got Malik’s forgiveness, whether he deserves it or not, but there is nothing he can do for him in exchange. 

________________________

He’s seen Malik’s arm, or what remains of it, bare before. Assassins don’t have much use for modesty. He has always made a conscious effort not to stare. At first, he shielded himself from the sight that brought to mind spoken and unspoken accusations. After, now, he doesn’t want to make Malik uncomfortable, or, more likely, angry. He always has to deal with stares from everyone else. He shouldn’t get that from Altaïr of all people.

It is the first time he sees it in such close quarters though. He doesn’t know what he expected. The arm is as healed as it will ever be. The scar tissue looks like it should be painful to the touch, but Altaïr knows by experience it won’t. Malik isn’t the only one bearing battle scars. 

He could skirt around it, evade it to keep both their minds away from that moment of their shared past. Altaïr would prefer that memory doesn’t show up here and now. It should be kept as far as possible as this, them, but it can’t, not when it changed everything about their relationship. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say it brought them here, about to share the same bed for the first time. 

Sometimes it feels like it was a long time coming. Sometimes he wonders how it could possibly have happened. He calls Malik “my friend” and he believes it to be true. They are also more than that now, but it doesn’t make it false. He is called the same and he wonders what exactly he did to earn that right again. 

Whatever it was, he’ll make sure he gets to keep it. So he falls on his back on the bed, lets Malik stand over him, stabilising himself on that single remaining arm. He lets Malik take the lead, implies he enjoys it that way and watches what that revelation does to him, flashes of heat battling with jealousy at the idea of other lovers and surprise at the thought that he’d prefer to surrender.

He doesn’t, and he never allowed anyone else this, but let Malik thinks this is how it is. Let him have this. It’s all he has to give. 

________________________

He is happy. He likes to think that so is Malik. They’re both well settled into their new status quo by now. Altaïr runs the Brotherhood, Malik never far from his side. He studies the Apple and Malik keeps him grounded, with his presence and his words and his touch, should it be needed. Malik doesn’t question his preferences at all anymore, just respect his authority during the day (That does not imply never protesting, and it shouldn’t. An always compliant Malik wouldn’t be Malik at all.) and takes charge at night. It allows Malik that amount of control he needs to feel like his equal. 

He has been thinking of giving him more. Maybe some restraints, ropes tied around his wrist, leaving himself open for Malik to do as he pleases. 

Malik’s eyes lit up at the idea, so Altaïr disrobes and lets him tie his hands using knots he wouldn’t be able to free himself from even if he wanted to. Even if part of him is still impressed that he can do these kinds of things with only one hand, it doesn’t calm his racing heart. Altaïr scolds himself. There is nothing to be nervous about. This is Malik, his friend, his lover, someone who would never hurt him. It’s not a problem. Restrained and without his hidden blade, Altaïr is still deadly, deadlier than anyone.

And yet. And yet, he still flinches when Malik touches him. He doesn’t even entertain for a second the idea that Malik missed it, too enthralled to notice. He can see him frown, see him study him and arrive to the proper conclusion. Altaïr closes his eyes and wait for his judgment as he makes fast work of the knots. Altaïr can’t help flexing and rubbing his wrists the moment they’re free and hates himself for it. 

“Why?” 

That is easy to answer. “I thought you’d enjoy it.” He loves Malik and he wants him to be happy. Surely he can understand that.

“I don’t enjoy it if you don’t.”

“I didn’t know I wouldn’t.”

“Then why not tell me when you did? I could have hurt you.”

The only reason Altaïr doesn’t laugh is because he doesn’t want to worsen the situation. “I could have handled it.” This is nothing. Malik couldn’t have hurt him, not while doing so little, and even if he did, it wouldn’t even compare to what Altaïr himself had done to him. 

Malik shakes him. “Idiot, do you think I want to hurt you?”

“You could, if you wanted.” Altaïr never really thought about that, but that might have been easier. Pain is easy. He could take a lot of it for Malik. 

Malik freezes for a few seconds, takes a deep breath as if he was going to start screaming, lets it all out and restarts talking in a flat voice. “I have no interest in hurting you in any way. Why would you even think that.”

This is going nowhere. “I don’t, I just wanted to please you.”

“At your own expense.”

“If necessary.”

“Altaïr, that’s insane.

Altaïr frowns. “You earned it.” That’s not a hard concept to grasp. 

“Why? I feel like I keep asking that. Why?”

Altaïr doesn’t know how to explain it. Part of it is that he wants to do anything he can to make him happy. Anything he can do, he wants to do. Part of it is that after all that Malik suffered, he deserves all of it. Part of it is that it’s Altaïr’s responsibility to make that happen. “Don’t you think I owe it to you?” At the core of the problem is simply that question: why does Malik not blame him anymore? 

Malik doesn’t like his question. At all. “Are you telling me you’re sleeping with me because you feel indebted for, what, what happened at Solomon’s Temple years ago? Really, Altaïr? Are you really that idiotic? Did you really think I wanted that?” 

“Of course not. I want you.” Malik wouldn’t want him to prostitute himself for that. He knows that much, and Altaïr isn’t that self-sacrificing. He took Malik for himself at least as much as he gave himself to him. “You’re really fine with it all?” He’s trembling. How ridiculous. His hands, both hands, are shaking a little.

Malik’s own remaining hand is as steady as if it had been carved from stone when it goes for his chin and raises his head to make sure their eyes meet. “I granted you my forgiveness years ago. You don’t owe me anything.” He presses their forehead together and closes his eyes. “You’re such a handful, I can’t believe it. Kadar was never this much trouble. Don’t even think we’re not going to talk about that. You’re going to tell me about every single thought that crossed that addled mind of yours and made you reach the conclusion that you still needed to be absolved.” 

How unpleasant. “Do I have to?”

“And now you’re whining? Such a child. Yes, you have to. This isn’t healthy and you need to deal with it.”

That sounds terrible, but if it’s what Malik wants, it’s what he’ll get. “Fine.”

Malik is patting his head. “Good boy.” Maybe he’s taunting Altaïr into biting him. That would be different. Or maybe he’ll show him what he missed all these years. Who knows, maybe he’ll like it.


End file.
